Goldilocks and the Three Bears
by Aelan Greenleaf
Summary: "The first one was too cold. The second, too hot. But the third, the third was just right."    Sherlock Holmes wants to get rid of the nickname Moriarty's assigned him. And so he, as he is prone to do, experiments.Sherlock/Irene, Sherlolly, and Johnlock.


**This idea just grabbed me, and wouldn't let me go. Sherlock/Irene, Sherlock/Molly, and Sherlock/John. Rated for sexual innuendo, but nothing explicit.**

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><p><strong>1. <strong>**"Too Cold"**

He decides, one rainy and miserable October day, to rid himself of his newest moniker.

_The Virgin_.

He bristles at the thought of it. Not at the implications of the term (a predilection for sexual intercourse was simply a trait of the most fallible of human beings), but at the knowledge that there is something out there that he has not yet mastered. That lack of know-how, that nagging feeling of missing data, starts to slowly gnaw away at him until this particular Wednesday afternoon, when he finally can't take it anymore, grabbing his coat and heading out into the rain.

He arrives at Maisy O'Dowd's flat, where he raps his fingers lightly against the well polished door. Irene Adler answers it a moment later, her hair long and strawberry blonde, her falsely affected Irish lilt fading when she realizes who is on her porch.

He stares at her, his blue eyes locking with her own. "Dinner?" he asks softly, his voice low and steady.

She only raises an eyebrow at him, then steps to the side to let him in.

He leaves an hour later, Irene sending him off still dressed in nothing but her sly smile. He forgoes the tube and decides to walk home, needing to process all the data he'd just finished collecting. The dip between her hip and her ribs, the feel of her lips on his neck, the way she moaned his name when he moved his fingers _just so_. He'd enjoyed it, by all means – the pure and complete pleasure he'd felt when his body pressed up against hers, so simplistic but yet so damned _good_ – and yet, he still feels like there was something missing in the experience, something lacking. Irene, while a very good technical lover (at least, according to his somewhat limited research on the matter), is not the most emotionally-accessible, remaining somewhat detached, somewhat _cold_ throughout the whole experience.

He stops abruptly in the middle of the pavement, lost in thought. How best to rectify this?

And then he smiles.

**2. ****"Too Hot"**

He waits until she finishes her pastry and half of her coffee before he broaches the subject.

"... and, well, it turns out Dr. Smith hadn't meant he _literally_ wanted the results on his desk, so Louise brought the foot back down to the morgue. But really, you'd think a medical doctor wouldn't be so queasy!"

He nods as if he'd been listening the whole time. He leans forward, and he notices her body respond almost imperceptibly, leaning in towards him just a little bit more. He fights to suppress his grin; this would work out just nicely.

"Molly," he begins, letting her look into his eyes.

"Yes?" she asks, her voice breathy, soft.

"I need your... assistance with an experiment," tells her, before elaborating further. Her face reflects everything, first the shock at the proposal (but really, isn't that what every encounter at a pub on a Friday night is all about?), then uncertainty, then a tinge of excitement, then finally a fairly consternated look of anxiety.

"Sherlock, I –" she starts when he finishes, hesitant but yet intrigued.

"Please, Molly?" he asks, looking as plaintive as he can possibly manage. (Perhaps this is what others would refer to as giving her "puppy dog eyes"?)

Well, whatever it is, it's effective. She sets her lips into a firm line, but she can't hide the excitement in her eyes, not from him. "Okay," she answers finally.

Six hours later, he is lying on his back in Molly Hooper's bed, his mind racing as he processes this new data set.

Molly, while hesitant at first, had been a drastically different experience than Irene had been. Where Irene had been confident, Molly had been acquiescent. Where Irene had been commanding, Molly had been accepting. Where Irene had been cold, Molly had been hot. Too hot. He had enjoyed it, objectively – had enjoyed the role of orchestrator, had enjoyed the feeling of having control (Irene had been quite unwilling to let him lead _anything_), and he had most definitely enjoyed the physical act itself. Her soft skin under his lips, the blush that crept up her chest and her neck, and the way she moaned when he moved above her.

But... something is still not right.

There had also been too much in the way of emotion: he can still see the look in her eyes as he kissed her, the devotion and affection there, far too much for his liking. The way she seemed to devour him, to want to consume him – her legs wrapped around his hips, her arms around his shoulders, so close to him, so hungry for more. Starving for something he can't give her, something he's not even sure he can ever give to anyone.

She's too... hot, too passionate. And maybe that's all there is – hot or cold.

He sighs to himself, unable to draw any concrete conclusions, and refocuses his attention on somehow escaping the sleeping Molly's hold on his body so he can slip away.

**3. ****"Just Right"**

He's still not entirely sure how he's ended up here.

After all, he'd resigned himself (after much deliberation and research) to never being able to completely understand the concept of sex and/or love. He'd simply taken the data he'd collected from Irene and Molly and filled it away, in a room labelled "unsolved" deep within his mind palace, and willed himself to forget the whole thing. And that was that.

Or, so he'd thought.

But then tonight, a scant hour ago, he and John had finally cracked the House of Lords scandal wide open, months after the Yard had given up on any leads. They'd come back into the flat, full of excitement and exhilaration and joie de vivre, and before he could think about it, he'd stepped across the room and grabbed John by the face, kissing him deeply.

He'd never, _ever_ done that before in his life, surrendered to his baser emotions like that, so easily and so suddenly.

And then it had... progressed from there.

And now – now he's lying on his back in his own bed, his breath still fast and laboured, his body still warm and tingling. He's staring up at the roof, uncertain what to say next, but every thought in his head is punctuated with these... _feelings_ like he's never felt before.

"So –" starts John slowly, hesitantly. His eyes are also looked on the ceiling, not quite sure how to vocalise whatever the hell had just happened between them.

Sherlock turns onto his side, and looks down at John, studying him.

John does the same, and Sherlock can see him trying to glean some sort of hint, some sort of clue in Sherlock's features, something for him to go on. "That was...?" he says, prompting Sherlock. The doctor's tone is tentative, but hopeful, so hopeful.

Sherlock stares down at him for another long moment, his expression vacant, opaque. And then his features split into an expressive, exuberant grin, so un-Sherlock in so many ways.

"That was just right," he tells the doctor softly, before leaning down to capture his lips once more.


End file.
